


Loss

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drug Addiction, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Lestrade gets to deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss

Holmes is lying on his side next to his chair, arm flung out, and Watson rolls his eyes and prods him with his cane. He sighs at the complete lack of movement, annoyance in every gesture as he pokes him again, and a sudden stillness comes over him as he notices Holmes' eyes are open, and he isn't blinking. Isn't breathing. Watson reaches for the out flung wrist, and he can't feel anything. There's no pulse, no breath, no nothing, and Holmes can't possibly be dead. His head is covering his the inner turn of his elbow, a trickle of blood is crusting round the edges and all Watson can think is how Holmes could have been so stupid.

Lestrade and Clarkie and the other young inspector are behind him, having come with along to roust Holmes out for some case, and they are very quiet. After a long moment, Watson reaches forward to close Holmes' eyes, his hand lingering over the planes of his face, and Lestrade steps forward. "Is he...", his voice cracking, and Watson can barely find the energy to nod. Lestrade draws a harsh breath, and turns back to the others. He hears Clarkie curse, and he's pushing himself up, cane forgotten, to stand swaying above Holmes' body. _You idiot_, he thinks, but cannot summon up anything but weariness. He turns away, and stumbles, catching himself on the table next to the chair. His hand brushes metal; he looks down to see his revolver. Just like Holmes to steal it. His eyes are drawn to it. Easy. It would be so very easy, to just, just let it happen, to just… and his hand is wrapping around the base before he can think to stop the movement.

*

Lestrade has been watching the doctor as Clarkie and the newly promoted inspector fling questions at him, the later with words and the former with a flick of eyes and twist of mouth. His mind refuses to consider the evidence before him, caught by the utter waste of it, seeking out other facts to offer him. The doctor's attention is held by something on the table, and Lestrade is stepping towards him as the glint of chambered death rises up. Lestrade doesn't pause to think; he lunges at Watson, his hand coming up towards the gun, knocking it away. It goes off, a blast of power and smoke, and Watson goes down.

Lestrade reacts without consideration, catching the man from behind, arms wrapped around his waist, breaking his fall and lowering him to the ground as he kneels himself, reluctant to let go. At first he fears he was not fast enough, but the shake of the man's body and the breathless gasps point to another kind of collapse. Watson is crying, moaning, hopelessly, and Lestrade swallows hard as he gives into impulse and pulls the doctor closer. He glances at Clarkie as he tucks Watson against him; the younger inspector is staring at them both wide eyed, but Clarkie looks as though he has been shot himself. Lestrade jerks his head, and Clarkie starts, grasping the arm of the other and dragging him from the room. He stops once on the threshold, glancing back before he shuts the door. Lestrade can hear him speaking to Mrs. Hudson, but his attention is devoted to the shattered man in his arms. Watson weeps as though his world has ended; for him, perhaps, it has. Lestrade only tightens his arms around him, offering what little comfort he can.

John Watson, he thinks. I will not lose you as well.


End file.
